Red Thread
by Frost Deejn
Summary: On a lonely Christmas during his years of wandering, Peter gets a little drunk and nostalgic.


Disclaimer: Once again, not mine.

Red Thread

The rain was so cold it might as well have been snow. And with that thought he suddenly realized it was Christmas Eve.

He took shelter from the rain in a tavern, a slipshod shack with plywood walls and a dirt floor, empty but for the bartender. But at least it was relatively warm inside. He thudded heavily on the wooden bench in front of the bar and put a handful of money on the table.

The bartender, a round-faced middle-aged man missing a few teeth, set a shot of baijiu in front of him.

"Do ze," he thanked him.

The bartender smiled. "I heard about what happened to you at the gambling den."

Peter couldn't help but chuckle. The thing about being the only Westerner in the remote town in Guangxi Province was that he was news.

"You have to look out for beautiful women. They always steal something, don't they? If it's not your money it's your heart."

"Or both," Peter added. He downed the strong liquor and thought over the past twenty-four hours.

He had met her while playing fan-tan. She was wearing an emerald green cheongsam. Her heart-shaped face, silk-black hair, and bright red lips kept drawing his eyes to her.

He won the next three rounds, and called her his good-luck charm.

He bought her a drink.

He told her his name was Peter King. She had laughed, a laugh which tinkled like a bell, and told him her name was Wang Shikuai.

She had challenged him to a game of go, and looked surprised when he beat her the first time.

After a few more games and drinks, she had asked him where he was from. He said he was from San Francisco. She said she was from Shanghai. He could tell by her accent that she was lying, but it didn't concern him. After all, so was he.

They had ended up in a hotel room.

He woke up a few hours later. The mysterious Ms. Wang was gone, and so was every yuan he'd won at the fan-tan table.

He shook his head free of the hazy memories of the amorous hours before she'd robbed him, and ordered another baijiu.

"You more upset about losing the money or the girl?" the bartender inquired.

"To be honest..." the alcohol was getting to his head and making him more inclined toward honesty than he typically was, "I'm not sure." Then he shrugged. "I knew neither of them would last long."

"That's what I thought when I was 17 and met this pretty northern girl named Cui. We've been married twenty-five years now."

"Congratulations," Peter said, wondering if his host thought that would cheer him up.

"How long have you been in China?"

"A few months. Almost half a year."

"Really? Your Cantonese is excellent."

"Thanks."

"Have you heard the legend of the Old Man of the Moon?"

"No. Who is he?"

"A god who joins people who are fated to be together. When two people are born and the Old Man of the Moon sees they belong together, he binds them with a red thread around the ankle. They could be on opposite sides of the world, but those two people will find each other and end up together, no matter what." He flashed a wide, heartening smile. "Don't worry, young man: somewhere in the world is the woman for you."

Peter scoffed. "Where I'm from, it's a flying baby named Cupid who shoots you in the heart with an arrow to make you fall in love. That's a bit closer to what my experiences with love have been like."

The bartender poured him another shot.

He had to admit it was a nice fantasy. Red threads linking him to the woman who was meant for him, the woman he was meant for. A woman who would actually love him, and not just see him as someone to be used and forgotten.

Red threads, like the bright red of Wang Shikuai's lips. The bright green of her dress. Red and green: Christmas colors.

Peter realized from this train of thought that he may have been a little drunk.

A memory drifted to him from his distant past: the jade green eyes of a beguiling girl he'd met when he was a child. He wasn't sure if he'd actually met her or imagined her; his mother told him he'd had a very active imagination when he was little, often even believing that the things he made up were real.

The thought of his mother reminded him of the fact that it was Christmas Eve. Or, more likely, Christmas Day, since it was probably after midnight by now.

After his father was institutionalized, he and his mother would spend Christmas together, just the two of them, in their home. Thick white snow blanketing the world outside the window. It glowed blue with the early morning light. No matter how little money they had, his mother would always make sure the house and Christmas tree were lavishly decorated, the gifts under the tree illuminated with the multicolored Christmas lights. She would go out of her way to get him the one gift he wanted most, no matter what it was. It was like she was obsessed with making him happy, maybe to make up for the absence of his father.

She had lived for him.

Maybe that's why she'd died when he left.

For a moment he thought about his father, wondering how or even if he celebrated Christmas in St. Claire's. For an even briefer moment he wondered if Dr. Walter Bishop was even still alive. It didn't matter to him one way or another. He would never see him again.

He tried not to care that it was Christmas, but he couldn't help but wonder if he'd ever have a Christmas like those of his childhood again, if he'd ever feel like that on Christmas again, waking up to a morning full of hope and happiness, warm in spite of the coldness of the outside world. Waking up Christmas morning in his own house, a woman in red flannel pajamas smiling at him, her hands wrapped around a mug of coffee...the woman bound to him by a metaphysical red thread around the ankle.

It was a nice fantasy, he had to admit.

But that was all it would ever be. A fantasy. He'd chosen the life he had, the life of a nomad, with no firm ties to anywhere or anyone. He was fine with that, really.

He just wished he hadn't remembered it was Christmas.


End file.
